high

I admit to feeling some degree of dissonance with a local, well respected “brand experience” agency. While my sentiment should not be taken as mean-spirited, I think it reflects the general perception of inequity in what is, invariably, the transactional relationship between companies and consumers.

Several months ago, I reached out to said agency — let’s just call them Gumdrop — as one on a very short list of boutique branding agencies. I was in search of work and partnership and conversation, and while I was admittedly serving my own interests, I had no intention of imposing without offering something of value. They gave me a very prompt and courteous reply and noted that my timing was inopportune. No worries.

A few weeks later I was embroiled in a curious project (a pandemic flu “game” which happened to launch, coincidentally, as the swine flu pandemic was announced) that I thought made for a good story. Remembering their receptiveness to my initial introduction, I sent Gumdrop a summary of the project — an excerpt of a blog post I was writing on the topic. To that they replied “Please take me off your mailing list.”

Frankly, I get it. We’ve gotta remain vigilant against the waves of worthless emails (and I note that I was, in some folks’ opinions, contributing to the problem). Even though my email to Gumdrop was not because they were part of a mailing list, any individual recipient has the right to say “please stop”. I acknowledged as much in my final reply to them months ago, and still believe it now.

Which is why it was much to my surprise that I recently received Gumdrop’s email newsletter (without ever opting in, that I can recall). In it, Gumdrop explained the campaigns that they feel make for a good story. And — I think you can see what I’m getting at here — I likewise unsubscribed.

I reckon the mistake made by our respective companies is that we were more interested in telling our own stories and cheering our own efforts than giving a gift. And as brand marketers both, we should perhaps rethink that approach.

In the interest of breaking the cycle, I “spammed” my Gumdrop contact with an original limerick as small token of my commitment to their delight. For what it’s worth:

Greg’s 82 Volkswagen, “Spence”
Was a time machine (well, in a sense)
By the time eighty-eight
Was his traveling rate
‘Twas seventy five minutes hence

[belated entry; busy is good]
IDEO is listening.
With no more nudging than our recent bloggy squawk, the revered designistas rocketed to bigwidesky some replacement method cards, a deftly penned note, personal contact card, and a paperclip we’ve dubbed “le sex bomba”. An impressive response, for sure, from an organizational monstrosity that understands the inescapable gravity of personal, human customer service [as Eliot noted earlier with uncharacteristic brevity, customer service is marketing]. And given that we really ain’t nobody to them, well, their attention feels nice.
[We're still deliberating whether or not IDEO is just playing along with our earlier conspiratorial suspicions, or if they've inadvertently included some proprietary scrap: check out this curious sketch on one sheet of their packing paper.]

I was wrong. My initial distaste for Windows Live Messenger’s Whatchoo Listenintoo? gimmick was unfounded. This is actually an ingenious feature. Provided they aren’t merely shuffling through a random playlist, my conversee’s current choice of music reveals a level of communicative nuance and emotional subtlety beyond even the most winkety of emoticons. And when Gregtober77 writes that “painting, sculpture, opera, ballet, poetry and theater shouldn’t bother considering ordinary people” while listening to Cinderella’s “Heartbreak Station”, there’s something to be said for subtext indeed.
In an effort to further the intimacy (and perhaps irony) of Messenger convos, perhaps the next version should also indicate when a partner “is deleting a message”, as it does when they’re writing one.

My comrade, sharp tack extraordinaire at a respected academic-centered consultancy, posted the following at his organization’s official blog:

Why isn’t there a FAQ on this site?
Good question. We’ll put one up soon.

I can only assume his post is in response to 1) redundant queries or 2) the suggestion of a FAQ, specifically, to field them. His site receives respectable traffic from all sorts, folks who no doubt inundate his whipsmart cohorts with fairly tedious questions. Indeed, FAQs (in their traditional use) are useful for pre-qualifying clients & associates, redirecting lost interlopers, and translating industry jargon. But here’s why I must dissuade said tack from a FAQ: they’re designed to end a conversation before it begins.

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I was reading the St. Louis Post Dispatch (the printed version!) one recent morning and came across this associated press story:
On many college campuses, home recipes are what’s cooking.
Aside from some ridiculous talk about parents and children born after 1981 being closer than any previous generation, it’s an interesting article highlighting a topic close to all bigwidehearts. Becoming more human.

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Typos, malapropisms, and spilled drinks notwithstanding, creatives are – each in our own way – perfectionists. This just makes us ordinarily human, I reckon. After all, the pursuit of quality is a common human endeavor – an airtight moon base, a better relationship with Dad, a more comfortable sitting position – and perfection is just the ever-elusive end of that journey. But we perhaps wrestle more rounds than most with the unattainability of perfection because it’s actually in our job descriptions, after the part about turtlenecks.

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